


The Wolf at the Church Door

by kayabiter



Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alchemy, Alcohol, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Carden's A+ Parenting, Guerrilla Warfare, M/M, Magic, Murder, Religion, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28730190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter
Summary: In the appropriately ominous fog, Lambert arrives in Anglia, following the promise of a lucrative if a bit vague contract on demonic pest haunting local woods. Armed with the code of neutrality and plenty of bombs, he fully intends to get the job done and not let himself be entangled in any political mess on the foreign shores.... It does not exactly go as planned.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher) (Background), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Lambert/Keira Metz (The Witcher) (Background), The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed) & Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 23





	The Wolf at the Church Door

**Author's Note:**

> Tags to be updated as we go :)

Wiping the blade of the sword clean with a tuft of dewy grass, Lambert glanced briefly at the demons, who huddled on the edge of the clearing, engrossed in a heated debate, and then back at his client who he had just disarmed to prevent him from killing said demons. 

The fellow, while far from honest, was at least stubborn, he had to give him that. Still trying to crawl to his own sword, its hilt, adorned with the crimson cross, gleaming menacingly against the dark soil of the forest, saturated after the rain.

Throwing his head back, Lambert took a deep inhale, full of the fog curling between the trees, of petrichor, and of the earthy, musky smell of the forest dwellers, who were now looking at him. Glancing in the direction of where the sweet incense drifted off the dark robes, not drowned out even by sweat and blood, Lambert pushed off the ground and turned to face the man. 

Taking a step closer, he toed the blade just out of the reach of those slender pale fingers a moment before they would have brushed against the hilt. It was a mean move, but then he was feeling very mean at the moment. Not that it was a particularly rare mood of his — but this time the reason was serious enough for him to continue being rude by pressing a blade to the client’s throat.

The cobalt blue eyes flew up. If it wasn’t for the rage they blazed with, the man would have been a perfect picture of those martyrs his cult was so fond of drawing. But those men were never this feral, never this desperate. 

Lambert tilted his head.

“That,” he said through clenched teeth, “was not in the fucking contract.”

_The day before_

Anglia was exactly as shitty as Lambert remembered it.

Pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders, he ignored the onslaught of rain that kept hammering on the soaked fabric with the viciousness of a cheated lover pounding his fist on the door of the unfaithful wife. 

Perhaps the priests were onto something when they called witchers an insult against nature because it certainly seemed to have taken offence at his mere existence. For the better part of his journey, the stormy waves had been rocking the ship as if it was a new shiny toy in the hands of an impatient boy — and now this. 

_Yes,_ he thought grimly, _might have as well just swum all the way there — would be just as drenched, anyway._

Shrugging a bit to straighten the heavy wet wool, Lambert glared into the late-night fog, or, rather, at it. It covered the entire bay, spanning from one cliff to another, the thick shroud only briefly interrupted by the seagulls: their wistful and anxious cries rang through the air as the birds darted back and forth above the heads of the passengers. 

But the wounds in the grey haze slashed by their swift wings closed almost at once. The quiet recovered, heavy and oppressive. It was impossible to guess where the other ships were before their dark shadows appeared startlingly close. 

Such weather was perfect for foglets, Lambert mused, narrowing his eyes. Even though they were not usually found near the sea or in crowded places, the monsters were evolving fast, eager to carve out a place for themselves in the human settlements, rich with garbage and easy prey — which sometimes were one and the same. 

Geralt had said as much, warning him not to brush off the strange encounters — as if he needed the golden boy to tell him that. After his last clash with an unknown beastie that sported a bit too many claws for his taste, Lambert was inclined to err on the side of caution.

As used as he was to hanging around haunted places, right now it felt as if the fog glared right back, an unvoiced threat that sent a shiver down his spine. 

Or perhaps it was just the cold, which was slowly creeping past the somewhat flimsy defence of his cloak. The wax that was supposed to keep him dry and warm somehow separated and started to melt off in the first quarter an hour, running down in thin rivulets alongside the water. 

Should have known that it was too cheap, Lambert cursed himself. Eskel had been right, as usual, when he’d warned him not to buy anything from that dwarf. Though to his defence, he had thought that as well, as he watched the sly smile of the blasted scoundrel grow wider the longer he had lingered near his shady stall.

However, he had been so low on coins that there was barely any choice, and he needed to prepare for the journey to Anglia for the vague but lucrative contract. The invitation letter was still tucked into the pocket of his jacket — could only hope the rain did not devour the ink the same way it did the cheap wax. 

The ship was slowing down, the outline of the docks slowly revealing itself from the dense fog. Lambert braced himself for the impact, widening the stance, but did not bother to uncross his arms to latch onto a mast or railing, like other passengers did. 

It wasn’t his first journey to the island, not even the second, but last time it had met him with equally wonderful weather, so Lambert had fled as fast as he could. He had enough of freezing in Kaer Morhen — the rest of the year was spent travelling as far to the east and south as possible, soaking the warmth in. 

However, two years after that last visit, here he was again — summoned by that ambiguous but imperious letter with the Church crest stamped on the red wax of the seal. It was not, per se, addressed to him — he obtained it in the town hall of one of the ports across the shore — but it was asking for a witcher service.

Once his boots thudded on the solid ground, Lambert almost did a jig. Shifting his shoulders slightly to readjust the scabbards on his back, he glanced around again. 

Just a handful of people gathered a bit to the side, out of the way of sailors, who scurried busily, arms full of sacks and crates. Ah, there — behind the rest, a couple of burly guys stood, clad in robes and belted with ropes.

Bloody red robes, he noticed, a bold choice for the humble servants of God, but they had faces of village thugs to match the garments. Those must have been the ones to ensure that the congregants felt god-fearing enough. 

Most confessions had someone like that, and usually, they picked those from orphans. The clerics pretended to offer them salvation — rather off-handedly — and the men responded in kind by pretending to follow the doctrine — in the same noncommittal fashion. 

Such fellows rarely bothered writing letters across the seas, though. However, behind them, stood a shorter, unassuming man in a black cassock, and that one looked like he did not just take the scriptures seriously — no, he was aspiring to _write_ parts of them. 

The man would not have immediately struck an idle onlooker as dangerous, to put it lightly. His pale skin and slight build were only emphasized by how he was flanked by two sturdier, red-cheeked monks as if they were guard dogs.

No matter how unassuming in appearance, such sleazy individuals could be far more unpleasant to deal with, prone to arguing over fine details in contracts. They also, as he had learnt the hard way from a couple of skirmishes back in Novigrad, usually had the support of local authorities. 

When their eyes met, the priest appeared content with waiting to let Lambert come all the way to him. Pulling on his best arrogant smirk, he strode over in a pointedly unhurried pace, ignoring the cold water seeping into the collar of his jacket.

“Greetings. You the ones with the monster contract?” he inquired airily; not that there were any other candidates on the docks at this hour, but one had to start a conversation somehow.

“Indeed,” the short one nodded, and tilted his head slightly, taking him in. “Abbot Wicklow - pleased to make an acquaintance. And are you truly the witcher?”

“Still was last night,” Lambert replied, reaching with one hand to tug the wolf medallion out, the familiar sharp edges biting into his fingers. 

The corner of the man’s thin lips lifted in a polite acknowledgement, but his eyes stayed as cold as they were before as he glanced at the token. “These days, anyone can get a medallion like that.”

Lambert raised his eyebrows a bit, but, pushing down on frustration, he tilted his head and willed his pupils to contract. It made his skin crawl to be inspected like a bug under a magnifying glass, but now the dirty yellow irises and the cat-like slit of the pupil should have confirmed his claim. 

And, sure, the priest’s gaze leapt to them, the glimmer of sick curiosity Lambert knew all too well.

“Fascinating. Forgive my doubt — I’ve heard there are plenty of impostors nowadays. One has to be sure, and since I never met one of your kind before, I had to rely on hearsay,” the man admitted conversationally, and there they went again. “However, there are so many conflicting rumours about your — how shall I put it,” — you shouldn’t put it in any way, just shut... — “differences” … up — “most of them utter nonsense, surely” — _surely_ —“But regardless, what should I call you, Master?..”

“Lambert,” he answered gruffly and jutted his chin up a bit, narrowing his eyes. “Now care to tell me what beast I will be dealing with? The letter only mentioned you had a pest of the magical kind.”

“That is absolutely true. Unfortunately, the details will have to wait until we return to the monastery. There is a good reason for such secrecy,” the priest replied and then gestured to the side with one hand. “But you are right, let us not dally any more. You seem like a man who prefers to get straight to the business.”

He shrugged, not seeing the purpose in exchanging any more barbed pleasantries. “Got it right. Lead the way.”

There were no directions included in the letter, just that he would be met by the contractor. It wasn’t particularly unusual — the wealthier clients often liked to make a spectacle out of inviting a witcher, riding side by side with him with their chests puffed out, as if the mere act of being near Lambert was a testament to their courage. 

At first, he had found it hilarious, then annoying, and now just didn’t pay much attention to it.

He did, however, pay attention to the fact that the letter had insisted on him taking a ship that arrived at the time when both docks and streets would be the least crowded, and everyone who was out would know better than to look too close.

Giving the abbot a sideways glance as they moved out, Lambert perked his ears to listen to the man’s breathing. “Where are we heading, exactly?”

“Eastry Monastery,” came a calm, collected reply. 

Right. A very scholarly reply - as precise as it is useless.

“How far is it?”

“Just a bit over five miles from the town. Why? Is something an issue?”

Lambert pursed his lips. Didn’t sound too bad, he could easily cover that distance. Still, dredging through the mud was better on horseback, and if things turned sour, at least he could snatch that as a reward. 

So, ignoring the damage to his pride, he inquired whether the paladins happened to have a spare horse.

“Naturally; I am aware that bringing one across the sea is more than a bit troublesome.”

Lambert nodded, not going to confess to the man that he simply didn’t have one. The last grey gelding had been stolen from him by some assholes back in Wissant. At least the animal had not met his end rather tragically at a single swipe of an enraged bruksae’s talons, like the poor bastard before it. 

“The stables are at the gates, a bit of a walk,” the cleric explained, cocking his head to the side and looking at him down his nose with an annoying little smile. It required some effort, giving how Lambert was a good head taller than the man, but he managed. “Does the local weather disagree with you?”

“A lot of things disagree with me — most of them with fangs,” he informed him evenly. “Comes with the job.”

There was that flicker of hungry curiosity again when the abbot adjusted the sleeves of the robe and cleared his throat. “It must be difficult to overcome fear when faced with such monstrosities.”

“Witchers don’t feel fear,” Lambert repeated the age-old mantra.

“So that rumour is true?” the cleric lit up like a child who found a cue on a treasure hunt. “And other emotions?”

“None,” he replied, neatly sidestepping the hail of mud that sprayed from under the wheels of the passing cart. Right now he was experiencing emotions alright, and while they might have lacked in variety, they more than made up for that in intensity.

Why were they all so interested in that, he wondered, not for the first time. If only they paid half as much attention to the feelings of their actual kin, maybe he wouldn’t have had to fight so many noonwraiths this summer.

“None at all?”

“Frustration, occasionally, I suppose,” Lambert drawled, meeting his eyes. There was already a brawl brewing, judging from the sounds of it, around the corner — on the premises of one of the inns, it appeared.

The abbot actually chuckled, shaking his head and raising his hand in an apologetic gesture, but then his face grew serious again. A faint frown creased his forehead. “Hopefully, it will remain so once you encounter our… pest.”

Dodging the infuriated looking innkeeper, Lambert gave him another sidelong glance. “Any reasons why it might not?”

“Though these creatures dwell in the wilderness, they resemble humans to a great extent,” he explained with a pained furrow of his brow.

Lambert scoffed, though inwardly he had to admit his mood soured marginally. “Many do. Never stopped me before.”

At that, the abbot smiled thinly but did not offer any further elaboration. Lambert waited for a moment, wondering whether the man was going through some internal crisis — clients sometimes did, mostly when monsters wore pretty faces. 

However, the silence just stretched, uninterrupted, long enough to make him clear his throat and speak again. “Wilderness, you say?”

“Yes—forgive me, I shall not divulge more for now. The local clerics implored me to delay discussing the contract until they can be present.”

Judging by the way his eyes flickered to the red paladins and a displeased twist to his lips, some tension was brewing among the clergy, as well. Unwilling to get dragged into that snakepit, Lambert just hummed in agreement. “Alright. Has it been raining all this time?”

The abbot nodded. “Unfortunately so. The weather is truly atrocious,” he muttered, huddling on himself a bit and hiding his hands into the wide sleeves. 

For just a blink, they shared an odd sort of camaraderie, united by the common enemy in the face of British rainfall. The town’s wall was barely visible behind the tiled roofs — still, some distance to walk, Lambert thought, wincing at the feeling of the shirt clinging wetly to his back.

“Is it always like this here?” he wondered with distant curiosity. 

“Just this week. But I believe you will be warmed fast by our fires.”

Though he did not let it show, the innocent phrase gave him pause — and Lambert glanced around again, with a bit more attention this time. 

The square they strode across was bustling with fishermen, sailors and merchants as they flocked to the doors of taverns. The red lantern winked at him, swaying in the wind, but Lambert was more interested in the crowd.

“Yes, I heard you have a lot of fires burning around here,” he muttered under his breath, watching how the town dwellers scurried out of their way with a bit more haste than was usual. Sure, the red-clad monks seemed ready to take offence at a wrong look, but it seemed to be even more than that. 

The abbot lifted his brows in genuine interest. “Oh? Have the news reached the continent already?”

Despite his attempts to hide it, he sounded so eager, it just hurt Lambert to break his hope, it truly did. 

“Not much,” he shook his head slightly, and added, “but the sailors talk. Red Paladins, they say, are quick to strike a match.” 

The priest deflated slightly and sighed. A vague look of frustration flickered in his dark eyes, but he quickly schooled his features into the same impassive mask, waving his hand slightly before hiding it back into the long dark sleeves.

“They hardly understand the significance of the Church’s mission,” the man remarked, and Lambert shot him another questioning look, but only received a slight shake of the head in reply. “We are merely trying to get rid of the devil spawns before they get too powerful.”

Shrugging slightly, he allowed the man to guide him towards the town's gates, where the stables stood. So, another cult wanted to appropriate the title of monster slayers while making the witchers do all the dirty work, big news.

As they walked inside the stables, his eyes lingered on the half-elf stableboy who hovered nearby, shooting them wary glances — and especially on his fresh black eye. 

During his travels this year, the rising tension between humans and other races was difficult to miss, even though it was still simmering under the surface for now. Eskel had noticed, too, and when they tried to puzzle out the source of it over a mug of beer before Lambert had set off to Anglia, quite a few threads seemed to lead to the Church. 

He had dismissed the concerns before, reasoning that it was known witchers did not take contracts on main races, but now he could not get rid of uneasy suspicion. For most, witchers themselves existed on that thin line between monsters and people that made them appealing scapegoats — and new cults had use for those.

When he glanced at the priest again, narrowing his eyes, his expression seemed serene enough, even if it was difficult to say for sure with the general weaselness of his features. 

“Before we get all committed,” Lambert drawled, “just to make sure — you have already asked the town guard to help?”

“Yes—to no avail. We really need a professional,” the abbot replied tersely, as if it pained him to admit they lacked competence, then paused. “And Geralt of Rivia replied he was involved with another contract.”

Right.

Last he heard, Geralt was indeed involved with a contract if one could call a certain raven-haired witch such.

In any case, he was fairly sure he could get out of a trap with little trouble, shall there really be one. The man did not seem to be lying about never meeting a witcher before, but, hopefully, a couple of carefully cultivated rumours he and Geralt had planted a while ago had reached his ears. It was always amusing to taste catmint and watch the men across the table wait impatiently until he was supposed to go all drowsy and vulnerable. 

Tough luck there.

“Which one?” he nodded at the four horses with crosses stitched on their shaffrons. Once directed to a grey one, he patted the animal amiably on the neck, letting it get used to the sharp scent of oils and potions that always clung to his hands. 

It was a ritual of sorts with almost every beast, letting them sniff to their content until they settled. When he was sure it would not try to buck him off, Lambert hauled himself up into the saddle and spurred it on.

The road was a rather dull affair, the rolling hills and shady woods hidden by the thin veil of the drizzle and shrouded in the fog that clung to the tree trunks and hid in between the tall grass blades. They only exchanged a couple of phrases - mostly the abbot inquiring about the news from the continent, and Lambert answering curtly, his eyes trained on the forest. 

A couple of times, in the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a shadow appear at the edge of the woods, but it melted into the fog as soon as he glanced at it directly. Quickly recalling how many bundles he still had in his stock of arenaria, Lambert counted five and settled a bit in the saddle.

“So, those shadows,” he wondered, uncorking the waterskin and taking a swig, as the clerics looked over their shoulders, faces turning pale. “Are they the reason I am here?”

“Yes,” the abbot replied tersely and glanced back at him. “Have you fought someone like that before?”

He shrugged, twisting the cork back in, as his eyes darted to the woods again. “Someone like that, yes. Need to see exactly what they are, though.”

“Hellish spawns are what they are — come out of nowhere like wraiths,” one of the monks muttered and spat on the ground.

“ _Like_ wraiths? So they aren’t?” he clarified, squinting as he tilted his head, studying the edge of the woods. There was definitely a shadow there, and this one lingered for a bit longer as if it watched him right back. The monks saw it, too, and reached for their short swords, but in a blink, the figure vanished, swallowed by the mist.

“Nay, not ghosts,” the talkative one shook his head. “Flesh and blood, those ones, and…” but then the abbot clicked his tongue, and he fell silent at once.

Lambert shrugged. “Sounds all the easier for me.”

“That is welcome news,” said Wicklow in a hushed tone. “But let’s leave it at that — I’d rather not discuss the strategy in the open. Voices carry far, and these creatures seem to understand some of the human speech.”

For the rest of the way, the clerics kept glancing warily around, eyes searching the fog much the same way Lambert did, even though he was far more subtle about it. The abbot made a valiant effort to appear unfazed and he even did quite a good job — until Lambert noticed how hard he was grabbing the reins. 

It seemed that that pest of theirs was at least real. However, though he kept an eye on the woods, the shadows did not appear again; and, despite the tense atmosphere, they managed to reach the monastery without any trouble. 

It was more of a castle, to be honest. Riding down the drawbridge, Lambert threw his head back and whistled softly. The building, one of the older monastic houses, was an impressive, looming presence, its thick stone walls covered in moss almost all the way up, and massive flanking towers rising tall above them. 

The vermillion banners adorning the walls fluttered slightly in the weak breeze, fog swirling lazily around them. The severe black lines of the crosses painted on the fabric only served to emphasize the military air of the cult abode — and then he noticed the archers stationed on the walls.

Wondering whether this was what Geralt felt whenever he found himself dragged in the middle of some convoluted political mess, Lambert tore his eyes from the walls and dismounted. The paladins stayed behind to take care of the horses, while he followed the abbot to the refectory.

At the old oak doors painted in red stood one more priest, shadowed by a guard of his own, much in the same way the abbot was. The colours of this odd pair were reversed, though - the old man wore carmine robes, and the sullen-looking tall fellow looming behind his shoulder was draped in black ones. 

The guard’s cloak was so long, and the hood hung so low, casting deep shadows, it was as if he tried to pass for a wraith himself. He was doing an admirable job; however, when they dismounted and approached the doors, a treacherous flicker of torchlight picked out his features. 

He was young, but that much had been obvious already from his slightly stiff posture and sharp angles of his body that even the cloak could not conceal fully. Pretty, too, in a slightly sugary way, Lambert noticed absently, but it was not why his eyes lingered. 

The dark marks trailing down the man’s cheeks were what caught his attention. He had seen many folks paint their faces, but never in such a startlingly natural way, and the patterns were none that he could recognize from his encounters with Norse or desert tribes. The traces almost looked like birthmarks. 

“Father Carden,” the abbot inclined his head politely, but there was an icy note to his voice, a hint of contempt mirrored by a pinched expression on the older man’s face. 

“Your Grace,” he replied, looking as if the words left a foul taste in his mouth. “I see you acquired one of the heathen sellswords.”

The abbot’s eyes darkened, even though the tense smile did not leave his face. 

“The witcher, you meant to say. You would perhaps be glad to hear that we caught a glimpse of the demons on the road—” he paused slightly, obviously savouring the worried frown of the older man, “—and, unlike _some_ of those who already tried, he was not intimidated in the slightest. More so, it seems our problem might finally be solved for good. Am I correct, Master Lambert?

He glanced between them and shrugged with one shoulder. “Need to kill one to know, but seems so from what I’ve seen.”

“Well. That is good news, indeed. But forgive me my inhospitality — and join us for supper,” he muttered as he flung the door open, stepping aside to let them in.

Inside the refectory, several more red-clad monks were scurrying with plates in their hands, setting the tables. Ignoring the curious looks they sent his way and the hushed whispers trailing after their company, Lambert followed the priests to the fireplace. 

While they settled down, he hovered a moment longer near the fire, choosing to ignore for a moment all the connotations and enjoy the warmth seeping into his skin and bones. As he took his cloak off and shook the water off it, he noticed the eyes of the two paladins drop to it. 

Well, it was indeed a sorry sight.

“That’s what you get for buying from dwarves, I suppose. Cheating bastards,” he remarked airily, watching as the water dripped steadily to the floor. 

The old monk seemed to mellow out a little at the words - just like Lambert had expected. Should it come to a fight, he knew which side he would be on, but he thrived in the grey zone, and getting the money out of churchmen to spend it at the nearest non-human’s stall seemed as good a protest as any. 

With numb fingers, he unfastened the clasps of his jacket and draped it over the bench, settling on it as well. Peeling off the wet gloves, he put them aside to dry off, then tugged the scabbards off and leaned them against the table. Still at hand, but out of the way enough not to insult his hosts. 

Though he would not have been the only one armed — the forlorn lad kept his weapons close as well, as he sat next to him. He still kept a careful distance, watching Lambert warily. Perhaps his sword was not just for show, as was likely the case with the rest of the paladins.

Their mutual staredown was interrupted by the arrival of food — and Lambert’s mood brightened significantly at the sight of a fried chicken resting enticingly on a plate in the middle of the table. It was an unexpected luxury for a monastic place, but the smell did not reveal anything harmful — except, perhaps, an ungodly amount of garlic added. 

Stomach clenched in anticipation, he reached out for a piece, but then his hand hovered in the air as he noticed how aghast the young man was — more so even than his superiors.

When in Rome, Lambert reminded himself, as he waited until the monks finished their grace prayer. At least his inability to participate did not seem to provoke them into preaching. Then again, probably he was not worthy of the words anyway, or something of the sort. Did not matter, as long as he could finally sink his teeth into the meat.

The short grace came to its much-awaited end. Picking up the cutlery — apparently inspired by Yennefer, Keira seemed to think it was a requirement for when you were wooing a sorceress, to learn how to cut a chicken with a knife and a fork — Lambert descended onto the meal.

His gaze kept straying to that silent, strange fellow, who had towered over everyone in the room yet acted like a child. He seemed intent on glaring a hole through Lambert — the steely intensity of his gaze was downright confusing. It was one thing to be stared at, but there was some raw torment, glimpses of which he kept catching, that seemed to hint at more than idle curiosity. 

In the meantime, the older priests just finished their strategic conversation, briefly interrupted by the prayer. In a much warmer tone, Wicklow called out, a faint smile on his thin pale lips: 

“Lancelot — you seem excited. Couldn’t wait?”

Is that what the strange looks meant, Lambert asked himself, surprised to see anyone call that particular tormented look excited. Guess he had to account for the oddities of cultists. And indeed, the young man inclined his head slightly, gaze moving for a moment to his superior, but then going back to settle on Lambert.

“Wait for what?” he clarified, staring right back, as if they were children waiting each other out, the first to blink is the one to lose. Not taking his eyes off, he bit into the first piece; it was a bit dry, but still surprisingly decadent for a monastery. The other man was not eating anything, which, given his sickly pallor, was rather unwise.

“Lancelot will be your guide to the woods that are infested with the demon pests we hired you for,” the abbot informed him, sounding as if he bestowed him a favour, and Lambert cringed.

“Hardly need a guide in the woods,” he shot back, knowing full well, from a couple of times he had been accompanied by an eager sellsword, how fucking difficult it was to make sure they didn’t get killed; especially while also having to deal with the monster of the day. He had always been baffled by how Geralt hauled that twink bard of his around and did not seem to tire of it. 

“I beg you to reconsider,” Wicklow said in a serene way that made it abundantly clear the refusal would not bode well for his reward. “Lancelot is our finest warrior. Do not let his humility deceive you — he has made quite a reputation already.”

“So you are him,” Lambert slowly uttered, as he lowered the fork and lifted his brows. “The Grey Monk, huh?”

“The Weeping one, they call him.”

Tilting his head, he glanced briefly at the abbot and then back at the young man, who still did not utter a word. “And for what do Red Paladins weep?”

The gust of cold draft stirred the flames clinging to the candle wicks, sending the shadows dancing wildly over the walls. The bench scraped over the floor, and then a loud thud followed as one of the paladins shut the door.

“For the lost souls and the damned.”

Right, Lambert thought, looking at the face that reminded too much of a stone statue for the word “compassionate” to ever appear in its vicinity — and, judging by the rumours, that impression was not deceptive.

The sailors had only mentioned the ruthless paladin once, in hushed, short phrases. It was quite difficult to reconcile the pouty young man in front of him with the vengeful zealot their words painted. 

The priests, however, looked openly proud of their prized pupil, and they obviously expected a more excited reaction. Remembering Eskel’s admonitions (“Do not — _do not_ , I repeat, turn entire Anglia against the witchers — it is not _a challenge_ — _I know_ you can”), Lambert looked between them, trying to figure out the angle, but then gave up.

“Nice,” he said, at last, going back to his meal, the knife scraping at the plate. “Am I supposed to call you that as well?..”

The silvery eyes narrowed as if the young man caught the whiff of sarcasm, but still, he kept silent.

“You can,” the abbot shrugged, replying in his stead, and took a sip of water, the same amiable mask resting on his sharp features. “Most brothers do.”

It rubbed Lambert the wrong way, to be even further associated with those robed thugs, so he silently vowed against the idea. Lancelot, was that it? Good enough. 

He became acutely aware that in that entire exchange, Lancelot himself still did not utter a word.

“Does your — finest warrior — have a voice?” Lambert inquired carefully. It was not out of the realm of possibility, and vows of silence were quite common among both knights and priests, of which the young man seemed to be a strange combination. But that would have made the foray into the woods even more of a headache than it was already shaping up to be. 

However, to his relief, the man in question finally opened his mouth.

“I do,” he said in an unexpectedly low, rasping voice. “When there is a need for it.”

Oh, this was going to go great, Lambert thought giddily. Nothing like riling up uptight young men secretly sure of their exceptional significance, chock full of arrogance that they try hard to mask with demure looks and pointed silence.

“Alright,” he announced with a lopsided grin. “Then tell me about that demonic pest of yours.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Lancelot’s face, and he frowned, glancing at the eldest churchman; Carden, however, did not meet his eyes, as he was busy looking at Wicklow, who, in turn, stared at the table. For a moment, the silence stretched as the abbot pursed his lips and twirled water in his goblet while he gathered his thoughts.

“Those creatures are quite cunning. They live in the woods and attack the villagers if they venture in them. And, as I said, they look almost human-like,” he paused. “Though some have antlers.”

“Leszy? Here?” Lambert clarified, frowning. The shadows were too small, but maybe young ones, and several of those bastards would be tricky to take out. Might need another man, after all, if only for distraction.

The priests frowned, exchanging uncertain glances. “Who?”

Swallowing hastily, he explained, gesturing with a knife to help him along. “Fifteen heads tall, body like a tangle of roots, a skull instead of a face and long claws? Followed by wolves and ravens, which they summon with magic?”

There was momentary confusion, three almost identical looks of horror as his only reply.

“No,” finally offered the abbot, frowning and pressing a hand to his mouth. “No, they do have magic, and roots are definitely involved, but no skulls — or wolves.”

“Have you fought this… leszy?” Carden asked, butchering the word hopelessly, with an uneasy expression on his ruddy face that was strangely at odds with a curious look Lancelot wore. The younger paladin almost looked like a child listening to scary stories at the campfire, Lambert thought with an amused smirk.

“Yes,” he nodded simply and considered the bone left on his plate. Jokes about wolf-like behaviour aside, tearing into it with his teeth was, actually, infinitely more satisfying. After a short hesitation, he allowed himself to fall back into the habit. 

“And you won?” the old monk asked, watching him with something in between horror and fascination.

Lambert shrugged and took a swallow of wine to wash the remnants of the fowl down. “As you can see.”

It seemed to finally instil proper respect for his trade into the churchmen, who fell silent, deep in thought — which was just fine, since it allowed him to finish the meal. Putting the goblet down on the table with a thud, he wiped his hands clean and sighed. 

“Right. What else do you know about them?”

“They mainly fight with swords and bows,” Carden offered. 

“Wait,” Lambert said. “We are not talking about some weird elves, right?”

“No, no,” the abbot hastily dismissed his concern, “we know witchers do not take contracts on the intelligent races… mostly.”

_And there is your only motivation not to ask me to slaughter a couple of elves that are getting in your way_ , Lambert thought darkly. To be fair, Cat witchers still did that. Even Aiden had used to take on contracts like that before he had put his foot down and told him to stop being a fucking asshole. 

Come to think of it, it was a more well-known fact among other races, that was probably why Wicklow was prodding the matter. Too bad, mate.

“We don’t,” he confirmed coldly, “but there are plenty of monsters wielding weapons, and yours sound like that. I need to know more before I am sure. When exactly do they attack?”

“Any time anyone ventures deeper into the forest.”

“No matter whether it is night or day?”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes in thought. Keira and Geralt were always preaching about how it was theoretically possible to co-exist with monsters as one did with animals; might give it a shot. “Can you simply avoid their territory?”

“No. They attack unprovoked and disrupt the woodworkers' trade, the hunters, any kind of a craft, really, that requires going into the woods. They also strike on the roads passing nearby the edge of the forests.”

So much for a peaceful resolution. Lambert frowned and tapped his fingers on the table. That was, indeed, an issue. “You mentioned magic — what is it like?”

The abbot shook his head mournfully. “We don’t know how they do it — only saw the carnage left behind by their enchanted roots. It is if they are alive, tearing people apart and choking them.”

“Any bodies left that I can see?” 

“Some,” came a curt reply, his contractor’s face darkening as he put the goblet away. “It’s a gruesome sight.”

Lambert shrugged. “Must be. But it might give me a cue. Do they devour them? Or even gnaw a bit?”

All three monks looked distinctly green at the question.

“No,” the priest said tensely. “After their deaths, the brothers were not touched. We buried them, as is the custom. But I can ask the nuns who treated them for details.”

Lambert’s frown deepened as he nodded and took a sip of too-sweet wine before asking another question. “How many of them have you seen?”

“Difficult to say — they hide in the trees. But at least several dozens, from the tracks and the arrows.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, trying to puzzle out who the hell had the unlucky men run into. Some unknown type of insectoids? Those had antlers as well, and if trolls could use primitive weapons, nothing would stop forest dwellers from that, as well. But they would have still preferred toxins to use and would have taken a bite or two out of their victims.

“Alright,” he said at last. “If that is all you know, then I will head out in the morning to track them and see what they are.”

“A sensible plan,” the abbot nodded seriously, and leaned back, taking a sip of water from his goblet. “Lancelot will accompany you, as we agreed.”

Barely suppressing an eye roll, Lambert nodded grimly and went back to polishing off the last pieces of rye bread on his plate. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young man shift a bit, leaning closer. 

Predictably, he didn’t take long to start talking now that the priests had their part said and were chatting rather more amiably with each other — in Latin, once again. The dark-rimmed eyes darted to them for a moment, and then slowly came back, meeting his own.

“I heard about your kind,” Lancelot said under his breath.

Lambert slowed down, chewing carefully, then swallowed and put the hunk of bread down.

“Did you now?” he raised his brows and leaned back, crossing his arms, an inquisitive tilt to his head. Anyone who knew him well enough would know that expression usually made an appearance right before the youngest wolf went for a bite, but there was no one to know that here. 

“They say you are as much a monster as the creatures you hunt.”

There was a brief moment of silence as they stared each other down.

“Now, Lancelot,” the abbot attempted to smoothen the situation, sounding slightly scandalized as he stared harshly at the young man. “It wouldn’t do...”

“It’s alright,” Lambert interrupted airily, and then turned to stare at the man again, and added, each word coming out as sharp as an edge of his sword, “because it is true. Going to do something about it?”

The monk looked ready to bite into his throat, but then Carden spoke up.

“No one is doing anything,” he replied in place of his — guard? ward? — putting a warning hand on the young man’s shoulder. The infamous monk immediately recoiled and lowered his eyes, though Lambert could still see how the corner of his mouth twitched in anger. “Lancelot is just young and doesn’t always know when to hold his tongue. He knows the punishment for that. Right, son?”

“Yes, Father,” he murmured softly, not taking his eyes off the ground. Something in the way all the fight seemed to drain out of his body in a blink made Lambert shift uneasily, vague memories of brutal training in Kaer Morhen coming to the surface again. 

They did not look anything alike, these two humans, and children only turned up at the monastery’s doorstep for one reason. So most likely, the Gray Monk was an orphan himself, and that bitter camaraderie was enough to make Lambert back down.

“‘S fine,” he muttered. “No need for that. Not the first time I heard this, won’t be the last.”

Still, the awkward tension lingered in the air, before the abbot cleared his throat.

“It’s rather late. Since you are to venture into those woods tomorrow, some rest would not go amiss,” he noted. “Lancelot, can you show our guest to his chamber?”

The young man nodded mutely as he rose, without even finishing his water and moved away, still not taking his eyes off the ground.

Lambert couldn’t help but frown again at such a startling display of obedience. It was even more than he usually saw from believers — most of them still tried to wiggle their way out of the strict confines at every opportunity, and they certainly did not look quite so defeated.

Pushing up from the bench, he nodded at the priests, who went for a refill of their goblets, apparently choosing to stay behind. Swallowing the last of his own wine, he put the tankard down with a thud, picked up the still damp jacket and strolled to follow Lancelot, who had been already waiting at the door.

As they entered the dormitory building, he paused to give hushed instructions to one of the paladins hovering at the entrance — nothing suspicious, Lambert noted, as he pretended to study the brightly lit but drafty hallway. There were some old tapestries and narrow stained glass windows, depicting, of course, the religious scenes — suffering, burning, more suffering, this time with more inspiration on everyone’s faces… 

Quickly growing bored, he averted his eyes, only to find Lancelot staring at him again, the same intensity from before. Itching to check whether the man was looking for a fight or for something else, Lambert threw the jacket over his shoulder and gave the monk a roguish grin. 

The disapproving glare that the young man tried to muster was very impressive - but not impressive enough to stop him from speaking.

“So? Going to show me the way? I need a guide in the darkness, you know.”

It was a horrible, horrible line, only made worse by the fact that he definitely saw better than the human did, but it elicited the desired response — a barely-there tick at the corner of Lancelot’s mouth. However, it vanished just as fast when he turned around and started walking down the hallway.

“You shouldn’t joke about that,” he remarked evenly.

Lambert shot him a sideways glance. “By virtue of being a heathen, I can joke about anything,” he drawled, a sharp undertone to his voice.

The corners of those weeping eyes tightened more. “Sometimes it’s wise not to.”

Would anyone miss that old monk if Lambert killed him? Did it qualify as an intervention into human politics? Lambert didn’t know, but he was quite keen to find out.

“Debatable. If you can laugh at something it means you’re not afraid of it — and fear is hardly an issue for monsters like me. And besides,” he gave the young man a crooked smile, “I have rarely been accused of being wise.”

“I can see that,” Lancelot muttered under his breath and Lambert guffawed in surprise, laughter echoing too loud in the sombre dark hallways. 

Someone behind a half-open door of the room they passed let out a dramatical loud sigh. Eyes darting around, the young monk hushed him anxiously, and Lambert raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Alright, no distracting devout minds, got it,” he relented, feeling mellow from his first good meal in days and unwilling to stir any trouble before getting at least some sleep. “So have _you_ been to the woods a lot?”

“Yes,” Lancelot confirmed quietly.

“And? Have you seen those monsters?”

There was again that lost, forlorn look that Lambert couldn’t quite parse yet. It was maddening, like an itch under his skin.

“Yes,” the young man said again, this time even softer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Several times.”

“How come you’re still alive, then?”

“I’m the best fighter,” came a simple reply, and then he stopped so abruptly, Lambert only had witcher reflexes to thank for the fact that he caught himself in time to avoid bumping into the young paladin.

“Here is your room,” Lancelot said, hand clenching on a hilt of the sword as he tilted his head. “I shall attend to my prayers.”

“Not going to guard me after the stories your wardens shared?”

“Don’t think you need me to. You are not like my brothers.”

There was a hint of a smile again on his lips, and Lambert mirrored it with a lazy, arrogant smirk.

“No, no need for that. The two of us are probably the most dangerous things in this monastery.”

No words were uttered in reply, but the silence was loud enough to make it clear that Lancelot disagreed — which only strengthened the desire Lambert had to see how far up the old man’s backside he can push the hymnal. 

However, he didn’t have the time to prod for more, as the monk turned around and melted into the shadows of the hallway. 

“Well, this is going to be fun,” Lambert muttered to himself, as he opened the door and was greeted by what was probably intended as a bed, but looked more like a slab of stone.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & comments are very welcome <3 Also, if you have remarks on Lambert's characterisation, I'd be happy to hear them (it's the first time that I write this uncooperative bastard <3). :)


End file.
